


Return of Other Tales of Watson's Woes

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Joanlock - Freeform, Watson's Woes, july prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: Late to the game but decided to jump in midstream - the prompts were too much fun to resist. This is my one hundredth elementary fic posted on AO3 - cue the confetti and/or the straight jacket ...Update: Sorry for the lack of posts to prompts but life has doubled up on me (in a good way). ...It's late but this is in response to JWP #26 - Exhaustion.  I think this is my swan song. It's weird ... angels, saints, candles ...  I'm tired. Good night.





	1. Chapter 1

On the floor, behind the leather club chair, near enough to the fire that its brown wrapper warmed on winter's evenings, sat the cardboard box. Seven months since its arrival and still it languished unopened, a monument to the stubborn nature of both Holmes and Watson. It crossed the brownstone's threshold one gloomy morning, camouflaged amongst the daily mail. It was addressed to both of them. The writing was distinctive, no doubt about the sender, even without a return address.

"Its for you," Joan handed the package to Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow at it and smirked, "I beg to differ. It is addressed to both of us, but your name is first. Joan Watson - see right there. It is for you." He courteously handed the package back to her.

"Yes, but he is your brother so the package is for you."

"Quite so, but you were his lover." They both shuddered involuntarily.

"That was cruel Sherlock. Just for that, you get to open it. It might be important."

"Ha! I know my brother..." he shook the package and it rattled. "This is more than likely a souvenir from some Greek isle, a seashell mermaid or a weather-predicting dolphin at best. I'm surprised he had the discipline and stamina to actually mail it." He handed her the package, "I am not opening it."

"Fine. Neither am I. Its not like we'll need to acknowledge it's receipt to him; we'll never see him again."

"Your lips to god's ear."

Joan set the package on the chair and walked away. "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"I don't... just an expression." Sherlock followed her. 

"Do we have anymore of that Egyptian bread you made the other day?."

"There might be a thin slice or two...."

And so the cardboard box sat in the chair, until becoming inconvenient, it was placed on the crate that doubled for a side table, .... eventually it saw its way to the bookshelf, and ended up being relegated to the floor and mostly forgotten.

Every so often, one or the other would pick it up shake it, and hand it to the other, stating something along the lines of "You haven't opened your package yet." The statement was then met with, "Not mine, yours."


	2. Been there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#18 - Have a real-life celebrity of whichever timeline you choose make a cameo.
> 
> I may have stretched the "real-life" part of the prompt just a wee bit.  
> 221

Sherlock came down the stairs in time to see Joan’s guest leave.

"Watson, the person just leaving the house, who was she?"

"You could say that," she said and smiled to herself.

"What?" He squinted an eye, cocked his head in confusion and followed her into the library. "I'm talking about the woman I just saw exiting our home. Had a rather otherworldly air about her, perhaps it was her choice of cloak and hood... gave her an aura of mystery .... Who was she?"

"Who is right.” Joan nodded at him, amusing herself and confusing him even further. “She is a friend, a doctor now... Came by for advice. She’s taking on a new position and thought I, having been in a similar situation, might have some wisdom to share."

“I see.” He didn’t but he wouldn’t admit to not understanding. “And did you?”

“I told her not to worry. She is the doctor now and close-minded opinions will change in due time.”

Sherlock stood for a second debating with himself as to whether to ask for clarification or to walk away. "Alright...." He chose to walk away. "I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Time to clean out the refrigerator. I swear that contraption is bigger on the inside than one would guess from its outward appearance."


	3. Harissa explains it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP # 19 Watson's Woes is an alliteration. Whump Watson woefully with  
> an alliterative injury of any severity. 
> 
>  
> 
> Don't think I properly met the prompt's challenge, but I tried.

Joan flung the fridge door open and frowned at its contents. The container of cous-cous caught her attention and she grabbed it and the nearby jar of harissa sauce. She'd spent the majority of the morning being Eliza Doolittle to Sherlock's Henry Higgins. It had not been a pleasant experience. Sherlock, for reasons only Sherlock understood, wanted her to be able to pass as British, a Londoner to be specific, from Kensington to be precise. He schooled, he scolded, and scandalized by her scant progress, he scowled. She, for her part, endlessly intoned, imitating his enunciation, until the consonant and vowel combinations were deemed passible to taskmaster Holmes.

Joan, as a general rule, excelled at everything she attempted. She was not excelling at accents and it irritated her. And further more, he irritated her with his know-it all attitude. She bounced the spoon against her skirt as she waited for the microwave to beep.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. Joan did not look at him. She took the her food out of the microwave, dropped dollar-sized dollops of the harissa sauce into the cous-cous and stirred. Picking up the container with a dishtowel for protection, she took a big spoonful and was about to bring it to her mouth when Sherlock shouted out.

"Watson, no! Don't!"

This only made Joan put the food in her mouth sooner than if he had not spoken. Having spent the whole morning harangued by Holmes, she was not now about to let him tell her what or what not to eat.

"No! Watson! Wait!" By the time he crossed the room to stop her she had a mouthful of food and things, unpleasant things, were beginning to happen.

A searing sensation was her first signal of something being amiss. She was used to the Sherlock's spicey sauces, the harissa usually being the spiciest but this ... this was actually causing pain. Her inner ears tingled, her throat closed up, the burning barreled up through her sinuses. Heat ensconced her, traveling downward and upward and leaving rivulets of perspiration in its wake. 

She couldn't think and knowing what else to do, Joan moved to the sink and spat out the food. But it didn't help. Her eyes burned and teared; she squeezed them shut to stop the stinging. Head hung over the sink, she coughed and gasped, trying to calm herself. Sherlock came to her side. 

"Lassi... Lassi..." he was repeating the word at her and she got angry all over again. She was dying and the man was trying to impress her with his scottish accent. She coughed out a not too nice word or two at him.

"Drink it, drink the lassi ... it will help."

She squinted through the stinging tears and saw he was holding a glass before her. Ah, damn it, lassi - the yogurt drink he prepared with the cous-cous. Another coughing fit wracked her body and she shook too much to hold the glass. Sherlock held it to her lips and helped her take small sips. 

With a hand soothing at her back, he murmurred words of comfort and encouragement as she drank. "Its alright, this will help. That's it. A little more ..."

She finished the glass, or most of it, and he set it aside and grabbed a dishcloth. Joan still bent over the sink, finally picked her head up, attempting to regain control but still coughing and blinking. He took the dishtowel and wiped at her face, her eyes, her nose.

"I'm sorry Watson, I tried to warn you." He dabbed at her mouth. "That particular batch of harissa was infused with ghost peppers. Made it for myself last night.... I marked it...." Joan looked at him with murder in her eyes. 

"See, right there on the lid, 'GP Harissa,'" he contorted his face into what he thought was an apologetic smile but she only saw as a smug grimace.

"I apologize, I would never have thought you'd..." as he talked another round of coughing overtook her and he once more put an arm around her back, gently patting and offering her the last few sips of the lassi.

Exhausted, with no fight left in her, she dropped her forehead onto his chest. Her voice when it came was hoarse but determined. "I don't want to work on accents with you ever again."

He knew better than to try to sway her at this point. "Alright... "

"And that horrid harissa has to go.

"As good as done. Now wipe your nose and your eyes and I'll make you a grilled cheese sandwich, hmm?"

She nodded her head against his chest but neither made an effort to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telling you what you prob already know. Harissa is a North African sauce/condiment that is very good a very spicey. Ghost peppers are one of the hottest rated peppers on the planet. Lassi, a yogurt and fruit drink, is delicious and one of the best ways to cool off the burn of eating overly spicey food.


	4. Hysterically speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for July 20 is:
> 
> JWP#20: Time For a Little Research. Look up something Holmesian/Watsonian you've always wanted to dig into but just haven't had the time, and use that research in today's entry.  
> \--  
> I was intrigued by a comment Watson made in 5.16 Fidelity where she states there's a possibility Margaret is holding a Victorian sex toy. So I did some research and well, most of it I didn't feel comfortable exploring here (not without raising the rating on the fics to Mature.)

"I found Archie's nanny playing with this." She presented him with the metallic toy.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his eyebrows arched, unsure he wanted to take the offered item.

Joan shook her head, "No, not like that. She thought it was a child's toy."

"Ah." Sherlock took the toy from her hand and gave the handle a crank. "How did she find it? I thought we put it away in last time we had it out."

"She must have been rummaging through crates I suppose. I told her there was a good chance it was a Victorian sex toy and she promptly returned it." 

"You know, in some ways, our Victorian forefathers and mothers were quite ahead of their time." He placed the metal object on the table. "While in others, well, one need only look at the blanket diagnosis of hysteria and the treatment women were subjected to once so diagnosed." He shook his head and went looking for the wooden crate he kept their various toys in.

Joan followed him. "Women's ailments are still pretty much ignored. Really, the only good thing to come out of the rampant misogyny of the Victorian era's medical profession was the vibrator."


	5. I go where you go, remember?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #21 - A trip to the theatre. Whether it's an actual stage, a performance,  
> an operating theatre, or some other interpretation, make sure a theatre  
> features in today's entry.
> 
> \------

Scrubs, mask, gloves, familiar for so long, now felt alien. 

She walked into the operating theater .... with an involuntary shiver the memories, smells, sounds swarmed back. 

She had been a good surgeon. A good doctor. She cared about her patients. Perhaps that'd been her downfall. Her skills were beyond reproach or at least she thought so until ... until what ... Joan was still unsure exactly how it happened ... what had happened .... what had she done ....

She took a deep unsteady breath and squared her shoulders. Sherlock lay under the lights, almost lost amid the wires, tubes, and trays. Over his protestations, she'd insisted on attending the surgery. She pulled strings; the lead surgeon acquiesced. She would observe, nothing more, just observe. 

.... So many things could go wrong..... So many things were beyond control....

Joan stayed away from the hub of activity but remained in his line of vision. He looked scared .... sedated but awake, a participant in his brain surgery. ...

> .... "I don't want you in there. What if something goes wrong, hmm? ...I don't want you to put yourself in that position. You can do no good in there. It will be one more trauma for you..."

Sherlock had been adamant and she equally so. Nothing would go wrong. And if it did, she would want to see it, to be available to help rather than sitting outside, waiting to be told what happened. 

Laying on his side, waiting for the procedure to commence, Sherlock locked eyes with her. He winked at her. And the action was so unexpected that she felt her cheeks warm.

The procedure was about to begin. ASL became her means of communicating with him.

She signed "love you" and in response his mouth twitched and his eyes closed.


	6. A total waste of my time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #22: Examine Holmes and/or Watson from the POV of one of their clients.

"May I speak to Sherlock Holmes?" 

The woman who answered the door studied my appearance for a second before speaking. "Sherlock should be home in a few minutes. You can come in and wait for him if you'd like."

Not the friendliest of girls I decided. Didn't crack a smile. But Holmes was supposedly the best and only the best would do for me. 

His office or home perhaps, was, well, shabby is the only word to describe it. Crates, cardboard boxes, mismatched furniture, he could certainly do with the help of an interior designer.

"Have a seat." She motioned to a sofa that had obviously seen better days. No matter I thought, I'm here for help not for the decor. 

"I'm Joan Watson and you are?"

She was quite pretty even if rather mannishly dressed. "You may call me Mr. Smith for now," I said as I made myself comfortable. I must say I was not fond of the supercilious look she gave me.

"Alright, Mr Smith. Perhaps you'd like to fill me in about your case while we wait for Sherlock."

"I'm here to speak to Mr. Holmes, Joan. My case is quite sensitive and I'd rather discuss it directly with him and not ... well, you know. Gossip travels fast if one is not careful." I looked her in the eye and attempted to convey the importance of my situation. I was here for Holmes and not his secretary. "Might I have a glass of water?" 

The look the woman had the audacity to give me! I'd have to mention it to Holmes, I thought. He might want to find better help. She said nothing, so I repeated, "Water. Please."

This tiny woman reared up and took a step towards me, "Mr. Smith, I would prefer you address me as Dr. Watson. I do not gossip. Mr. Holmes and I are partners, equal partners and I've decided that we are not taking your case. I think your mistress left you voluntarily and is quite better off away from you."

I rose to my feet in anger. How could she have possibly known about Brenda. I towered over the woman, "How dare you speak to me in such a manner. You will not be a "partner" for much longer I can assure you. You know nothing of me..."

All of a sudden, a man bounced in front of me, red in the face, he stood between myself and the woman. He pushed me back and turned his head towards her. "What is going on here?"

"Mr. Smith, here, has been nothing but condescending and rude since he walked in. He wanted to be speak to you and only you. He just demanded I fetch him water. I don't think we should take his case."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright." He took her side immediately without even speaking to me. "Would you like to continue handling this yourself?" He stepped aside and I saw the happy glint in his eye as he awaited her answer. 

She folded her arms before her, surveying me imperiously before speaking, "Why don't you show him out. I think I might be tempted to get out the single stick if he says anything further." 

He wrinkled his nose at me. "I suggest you keep quiet and leave."

"Obviously your famed abilities are manufactured hogwash if you take the word of this little Chinese woman ..."

 

"Next thing I knew I came to on the steps of the building with a bruised jaw. I'm not sure which one of the two perpetrated the assault. Possibly both of them."

Detective Bell eyed me rather suspiciously, and closed his notebook. "If I may make a suggestion Mr. Smith? Forget the whole incident and I'll do the same. Pressing charges means we have to bring them in, hear their side of the story and I really don't think you want to mess with them any further."

I considered his advise and realizing that the details of my affair might become public knowledge if I continued, I decided to walk away from the incident.


	7. The Queen of Denial and Her Alligator Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#23 - 'Tis But a Scratch. We’re called Watson's Woes, folks... Have Watson  
> choose to hide something bad from Holmes, or to minimize it, for whatever  
> reason; it may or may not end well.  
> \----------  
> Last year I answered this prompt with "Spotted Dick" - this year's fic is a step down ...  
> A 221

"You're limping. Why are you limping?"

"I am not limping."

He watched her cross the kitchen, her left leg hitching ever so as weight was placed on it. "It's you're ankle, you twisted you're ankle. Is that why you're limping?"

"No. And I'm not limping." She reached for a coffee cup and in so doing her pajama pants lifted enough for him to catch sight of the bandage round her ankle.

"You sprained your ankle. Did you fall off those ridiculous heels you were wearing yesterday?"

Joan savored her first sip of coffee and said nothing. 

"That's it isn't it, you fell off those bloody shoes." He turned back to his cereal bowl. "It's a wonder that doesn't happen more often."

With concentrated effort to maintain an even gait, she walked over to where Sherlock sat, put her cup down and leaned over him. "I am not limping. I did not sprain my ankle. I did not fall off my shoes." 

Sherlock looked up at her through his lashes as he chomped on his cereal. 

"And if you say one more word about this to me or anyone else, you will be the one who is limping." She cocked her head at him. "Understood?" He stared and said nothing. 

Joan picked up her coffee cup and limped out of the kitchen.


	8. Ivan Skavinsky Scavar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP#24 is: Music Hall. There's a list of music hall songs here on Wikipedia (  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_hall_songs). Refer to one in your fic.
> 
> \-----  
> FYI: Blood mentions but nothing graphic

A mason jar, decorated with a red and white checkered cloth, and bearing a twine ribbon just below the lid was left on their doorstep. It looked for all the world like a neighborly gift of preserves except for the color and consistency of its contents. Joan took one look at it upon opening the door and called out for her partner. 

"Sherlock! Quick! And bring gloves."

She examined the stoop for any extraneous materials before kneeling to take a closer look. A folded card, hole punched and attached to the jar by the twine tempted her but she waited for her partner before touching it.

With latex gloves already on and carrying another pair for her, Sherlock arrived and knelt beside her. "What have we here?" Gingerly, he lifted the jar and held its deep red contents aloft, letting the sunlight shine through.

"Blood," he stated matter of factly. "We'll let forensics determine what kind of blood."

He put the jar down, and Joan sporting her own pair of gloves opened the card.

Cut out letters, small, but distinct, spelled out the message. "Courtesy of Ivan Skavinsky Scavar."

Sherlock's lips pressed together tightly into a frown; his brow furrowed. He stared at the card, studying it closely.

Joan watched as he tensed, jaw clenching and unclenching. "Do you know this Scavar person?"

"Ivan Skavinsky Scavar is the title of a rather bawdy British music hall song that survives to this day." His eyes met hers. "Rugby aficionados will oft times serenade their team with the rather picturesque lyrics of Ivan Skavinsky Scavar." Sherlock took beat. "Do we know the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran?"

"Last we heard, he was barely hanging on in the prison infirmary. You don't think ..."

"Hmm... I don't know but I think it best we get inside and place a call to the captain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am firm in my belief that Sebastian Moran is alive, out there, somewhere, still singing hymns to Arsenal (and a rugby team or two) and planning his revenge.


	9. The Patience of a Saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late but this is in response to JWP #26 - Exhaustion
> 
> I think this is my swan song. It's weird ... angels, saints, candles ... I'm tired. Good night.

Michael flexed his wings and wiped at his face with both hands. Archangel, patron saint of warriors, soldiers, police officers and firefighters, he'd seen it all .... but these two ... these two who at first blush seemed no more of a challenge than a pair of kittens ... man, they were exhausting little things. Their hearts were in the right place and the work they did was excellent but they were just wearing him down. 

How he ended up watching over them befuddled him ... well no, that wasn't true. He knew exactly how it happened. She lit candles and said prayers and asked so sweetly he couldn't help but agree. He'd always had a soft spot for Mary... Mary the fierce, Mary the kind, who had fought many a battle herself. 

And here they were at it again. He was alerted to their dilemma by one, or the other's, or maybe it'd been both, of their guardian angels. As tired as he was, he knew those two guys really had their work cut out for them, especially Roger, the one watching over Mary's kid. Joanie was fearless - she followed killers into dark alleys, faced off with drug lords alone in the middle of the night, taunted and went behind the back of that pillar of shit, Morland Holmes ... and all in heels and couture. Michael snorted a laugh, if ever there was camouflage for a warrior spirit, heels and couture was it. 

And Holmes, well Holmes, in Michael's saintly and archangeley opinion, was just batshit crazy. Smart man, intense, great heart, but Holmes, even on good days, had his guardian angel, Fred, covering his eyes and running around in circles.

He turned his attention to Watson and Holmes, side by side, they stood facing the barrel of a gun. Before Michael had a chance to intercede, the trigger was pulled; Watson pushed Holmes out of harm's way and received a bullet as reward.

Damn it! He should have seen that coming. A cacophony of prayers for her shot up around him, the loudest from the professed atheist who held her body tight against his at the moment. 

There was no undoing what just been done. Free will was a bugger. But Michael could and did make it so the shot was not lethal. She would pull through. She'd be okay. He wished he could say the same about Holmes. That was going to have to be Fred's problem. Michael was drained. He enveloped himself in his wings, the universe darkened and he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Michael speaks, in my head at least, like a cop or firefighter. He's the warrior angel and he has an ego. And I made Mary Watson catholic because ... because I wanted to.


End file.
